


The Night She Said Yes

by lauraschiller



Category: Impostors - Scott Westerfeld, Uglies Series - Scott Westerfeld
Genre: Celebrities, Dictator of Shreve Is Evil, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Interview gone wrong, Manipulation, Marriage Proposal, Paparazzi, Politics, Protective Naya, Sisters, Thousand Faces Party, Who is Frey and Rafi's Mother?, this is not how you propose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26902231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lauraschiller/pseuds/lauraschiller
Summary: The Dictator of Shreve acquires a First Lady. Years later, Frey and Rafi research the life of the mother they never knew. (This story has been cross-posted to FF.net.)
Relationships: Dictator of Shreve/Nana Love, Frey & Rafia, Nana Love & Naya & Noriko
Kudos: 2





	The Night She Said Yes

It was rare for a foreigner to be invited to Nana Love’s Thousand Faces Party, but Sean Shreve, as usual, was an exception. Due to the controversy surrounding his political career, which had bumped his face rank up into the top thousand names on the city interface, he was attending tonight for the third year in a row. Everyone’s eyes - and cameras - were on him as he circled the room.  
He stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. Not just because of his gray-streaked blond hair, blue eyes and hawkish nose, or even because he towered head and shoulders above all the women and most of the men, but because everything about him, from the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth to the creaking of his leather shoes, was real. Nothing surged, nothing enhanced; the only technology he used was a tiny cyrano device in one ear. The black tuxedo he wore, among all the glitter of the other guests’ outfits, could have come straight out of a Rusty-era movie.  
“Shichō!” Mayor. Toshi Banana, Tokyo’s most notorious muckraker, greeted him with a bow so deep it bordered on mockery. “Congratulations on winning your third election. How does it feel to be in power for that long?”  
“It feels good, I don’t mind telling you.” The Mayor replied in English, his cyrano broadcasting the Japanese translation. The effect was somewhat eerie, as if the man were speaking in two voices at once.  
“In a city you named after yourself, no less. May one ask why?”  
A reputation bubble was forming around the two men as they talked, onlookers watching with interest as a cloud of glitter cams swarmed overhead.  
“I didn’t name it after myself alone.” The older man’s face grew stern. “You’ll notice it’s Shreve City, not Sean City. I named it after my ancestors, who survived the breakdown of civilization and helped to build a new one from the ground up. I named it after the descendants I hope to have someday, who will help to build our future. Continuity means a lot to my citizens, and our new name is meant to reflect that.”  
When he spoke of descendants, his blue eyes swept right over the younger man’s head, scanning the crowd, as if in search of one particular person. Then they brightened. For just a moment, a smile flickered across his face.  
“Continuity, ne?” Toshi shot a pointed glance at his interview subject, even though he had to crane his neck up to do it. His shark-shaped hovercam flew in circles around them. “Is it true you’re planning to change the law to make yourself leader for life?”  
“It’s true.”  
Surprised gasps and whispers came from those around them. Uneasy glances darted back and forth. Democracy had been one of the Prettytime’s core values. Of course the real decisions had happened behind the scenes, but that was something most people preferred not to think about. For one man to openly bid for power like this was radical. Then again, since the mind-rain, radical things were happening all the time.  
“And how would you respond to those who would describe that as an abuse of power? Who call you a dictator, even?” Toshi used the English word for dictator, his accusing voice and heavy accent drawing even more attention than they already had.  
Sean’s eyes flashed. He spoke in a quiet, controlled voice more powerful than a shout. “Do you even know what a dictator is? It comes from the Latin word for speaker. The likes of you should understand that. How old are you, thirty? Five years ago, you were a brain-damaged bubblehead along with your followers, and now you presume to speak for them?”  
Toshi turned a furious shade of red and took a breath to interrupt, but Sean went right on talking. “These are dangerous times, young man. War and greed have been unleashed upon the world for the first time in centuries. Everything we once believed in is being brought into question. In times like these, people need someone they can rely on to speak for them. If that makes me a dictator, so be it.”  
Sean’s hand shot out and, in a shockingly violent gesture for an urbane politician in a civilized setting, grabbed Toshi’s hovercam and squeezed until the plastic cover creaked.  
The young kicker winced, as if it were a part of his own body the Mayor was threatening to destroy. The plastic shark, responding to its owner’s agitation, waved its fins and struggled to get away.  
Would he really destroy it? Here and now, with everyone watching? 999 people in the room, and even more watching the live feed, held their breaths in anticipation.  
“Ara!” A light, musical voice rang through the silence. The crowd parted to reveal none other than Nana Love herself.  
The most famous woman in Tokyo was slim and delicate, her skin a pale gold, her black hair pulled back into a simple bun. Only a natural pretty could have pulled off such a severe style, but on her it was perfect, making her cheekbones look sharper, her brown eyes wider, and her lips even softer than they were. She wore a sleeveless sheath dress made of mirror silk, which looked silvery gray by itself, but when in company, reflected the colors of everyone around her, a subtle compliment to her guests from the consummate hostess. As she came to stand between Toshi and Sean with a cocktail glass in each hand, the dress turned matte black on one side and shiny teal on the other.  
“Gentlemen, please,” she said, smiling, in softly accented English. “No politics at my party, yes? Tonight is a night for fun!”  
She held out the glasses. Toshi drank his down in a single gulp. Sean took his in both hands, brushing her fingers as he did so, and letting go of the hovercam as carelessly as if he’d forgotten the thing even existed. It swam away through the air after Toshi who, red-faced and scowling, headed for the bar at the opposite end of the room.  
The tension in the room dissipated, like the air let out from a balloon. People either stopped watching and turned back to their own conversations, or they stepped back to watch from a comfortable distance. With a discreet flick of her fingers, Nana sent the cameras a few metres away.  
“Ah, Miss Love. Thank you.” Sean held up his glass in a silent toast to her before taking a sip. With his other hand, he switched off his cyrano so that he spoke only English, excluding a good part of his listeners from the conversation.  
“You’re welcome, Mayor. But please, I told you before, call me Nana-chan. Everyone does.”  
“I’m not everyone.”  
“I can see that.” She smiled up at him and raised her eyebrows in a way that could have been either flirtatious or disapproving; on camera, it was impossible to tell.  
“I do apologize for making a scene at your delightful party. Freedom of speech is all very well, but there are limits to what one should endure from these … kickers.” He said that like the middle-aged man he was, making a face over the slang term. Nana giggled.  
“I know what you mean. But we need them, no? Like you said - if you speak for the people, someone must record it.”  
“Fair enough.” He placed his free hand on the small of her back, steering her to one of the balconies that overlooked the city. “It’s the price you and I pay for being leaders.”  
“Oh, I’m not a leader,” she said demurely. “In fashion maybe?” She ran one hand over her dress, which was now black from top to bottom to match his tuxedo, except for one white streak between her breasts. “But my work is not important, not like yours. I’m an entertainer, that’s all.”  
“I beg to differ.”  
They had reached the balcony, which overlooked Nana’s pleasure gardens. She reached for a folding paper screen to slide between the two of them and the rest of the party. There were still cameras outside, of course, but the illusion of privacy was maintained.  
“I see what you do for your people, Miss Love,” said Sean, leaning closer than a foreign dignitary normally would to his hostess. “Even if no one else does. I see the intelligence and dedication it takes to keep them united as you do. My style of leadership - well, it works, but it’s made me hated as well as respected. But you … you lead by making them love you, so they don’t even notice they’re being led.”  
“Why, Mayor,” she said, again using that noncommittal smile. “You make me sound like some kind of pre-Rusty animal trainer.”  
“I assure you, that’s not what I meant. All I’m trying to say is how much I admire you.”  
“Ah.” Her smile widened. “In that case, thank you very much.”  
Night-blooming jasmine twined itself around the railing. Golden lanterns made her face glow like an angel’s, even as they cast forbidding shadows over his. It was part of Nana’s near-universal appeal that she always angled her face to make the best use of available light. No one had ever found out whether she did it on purpose, but either way, it worked.  
“Have you ever,” said Sean, putting down his glass on the balcony railing, “Considered bringing your feed to a wider audience?”  
“Who doesn’t?” She shrugged lightly. “Why?”  
“Come to Shreve.” Suddenly - almost as suddenly as he had grabbed the hovercam - one of his large, powerful hands was holding hers. “Come to my city. Tokyo loves you now, but I could make the whole world love you.”  
“Y-your city?” She stepped back, her face shadowed. For the first time, the poised and confident woman sounded uncertain, like the twenty-year-old she was. “I .. oh yes, why not? I could visit. You can help me practice my English.”  
“Your English is excellent, as you well know, and that’s not what I mean to ask you.”  
He pushed the folding screen aside with a flourish, revealing several people who skittered back guiltily, caught eavesdropping. Giggles were heard. Several cameras swooped in closer. Sean switched his cyrano back on.  
“My friends,” he said in his strange doubled voice, his eyes seeming to make contact with every lens in the room without looking away from Nana’s face, “From the moment I first came to Tokyo, I couldn’t believe how beautiful it all was. Your spirit of innovation amazes me, and so does your strong link to the past.” He glanced from all the various clique costumes on display - surge monkeys, Reputation Bombers, manga-heads, even some Extra visiting from the space program - to Nana’s best friends, Naya and Noriko, who wore kimonos (red and white, respectively) and carried paper fans.  
“I hope you’ll forgive me,” he said, smiling and dipping his head in an almost-bow, “For taking the most beautiful thing in Tokyo away with me. But I’m a simple man, as you all know. When I see something I want, I reach for it.”  
He tugged on Nana’s hand, which he had kept hold of the whole time he was talking, bringing her face back into the lantern light. For a moment, her eyes looked almost too wide for her face, as if she was nervous or even frightened. But then she smiled, and the moment was gone. Sean pulled her closer.  
A paper fan swept down between them, deceptively delicate. A steel blade glinted at its edge.  
“She hasn’t said yes!” Naya snapped, her red kimono coloring the left side of Nana’s mirror silk gown.  
“But you will, won’t you?” Sean went down on one knee, but the look on his face was anything but submissive. He looked up at the two women and the swarm of witnesses around them with a smirk at the corner of his mouth.  
“Nana.” He left a deliberate pause where the -chan would be. “Will you marry me?”  
“Say yes!” someone squealed from the back of the crowd. Before long, almost everyone was chanting in unison, like fans gone wild at a hoverball game: “Say yes! Say yes! Say yes!”  
Noriko clutched Naya’s arm, looking anxious. Naya glowered. Neither of them joined in.  
Nana looked from the man holding her hand to the audience for whom she had been performing since she was sixteen. Her whole life was a performance. Was there ever any doubt as to how it would continue?  
“Hai,” she whispered.  
“So everyone can hear you.”  
“Yes, Sean,” she said, English and Japanese ringing out with the strength of a professional actress. “I will.”

/

Twenty years later, fifteen-year-old Rafia of Shreve sat with her arm around the shoulders of her twin sister Frey, curled up on the futon, as the wallscreen finished the recording. She hit Pause just as Nana’s celebrity smile filled the screen. They both had their mother’s coloring, but their father’s sharp nose and long limbs had made sure no one would ever call them delicate. Rafi had something of her charm, but not when she was scowling - which, at the moment, she was.  
“I hate her sometimes.”  
“Rafi!”  
“What?” She grabbed her makeup kit from her nightstand and threw it at the wall. It hit Nana’s image in the left eye and landed on the floor with a clatter. “I’ll never be perfect like her, no matter how hard I try.”  
“You don’t have to be,” said Frey.  
“Tell that to him.”  
She meant their father. Neither of them had to say it. Rafi sighed.  
“I don’t think … ” Frey began, always shy in offering an independent opinion, unless it had to do with her bodyguard training. “I don’t think she was perfect. I think she was lonely.”  
“Why?” Rafia scoffed. “She got what she wanted, didn’t she? The whole world did love her. Well … almost.” Her killers being the obvious exception.  
“But did he?”  
“Little sister.” Rafi rolled her eyes with affectionate contempt “You know better than that.”  
Frey rolled her eyes too, perfect as a mirror. “No, I don’t. He could’ve been different when he was younger. Before … ”  
Before Nana’s death, and the loss of her little boy. Before Sean Shreve became the man without a name.  
Rafi tried to imagine it, and couldn’t. The lady on the screen looked too fragile to fight anyone, let alone a rebel with a gun. Frey would know what a bullet wound looked like, how it would bleed, how long it must have taken to harvest their mother’s DNA while she was dying, in order to create more beautiful children. Rafi wished she could muster up some emotion, besides resentment and morbid curiosity, for this woman she had never known.  
“Why do you think no one says his name anymore?” Frey asked suddenly. “Is it because she was the last one who did?”  
“You think? I always thought it was … you know.” Rafi mimed holding a handful of dust, referring to the spy dust that was their father’s way of improving on Tokyo’s glittercams. Of course he still had his ways of learning what his citizens thought of him, but avoiding his name did make that harder.  
Maybe he did genuinely mourn for his wife and son, but that didn’t negate his ruthlessness. All they’d have to do was think of Noriko to remember what the man was capable of.  
“You’re probably right.”  
Frey’s eyes were full of emotion as she looked up at their mother’s face. Rafi wished, not for the first time, that their places had been switched. She would have made a much better killer.  
“Either way,” Rafi said firmly, knowing the right thing to say at least, even if she didn’t know the right thing to feel. “It doesn’t matter.”  
“Why not?”  
“Because we don’t have to be like them.” She echoed Frey’s own words back at her. “We can be different.”  
“How?”  
“There’s two of us, silly.” Rafi kissed the top of her sister’s head. “We’ll never be lonely.”  
And if Mother was, she added silently, All the more reason to make Daddy pay.


End file.
